


Bloody Tendrils and Ill Omens

by Lemon (lemon_sprinkles)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canonical Character Death, Dreams, F/F, F/M, House Baratheon, House Tyrell, M/M, Plotty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_sprinkles/pseuds/Lemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery had learned many valuable lessons from her Grandmother, but one had always stayed with her. Work within the constraints—do not struggle against them, rather harness the power for yourself. Do not draw attention, never assume too much, and keep your intentions to yourself. Margaery remembered and never forgot. *SPOILERS FOR A CLASH OF KINGS*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Tendrils and Ill Omens

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [血蔓与凶兆丨Bloody Tendrils and Ill Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/751976) by [iriskung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriskung/pseuds/iriskung), [Lemon (lemon_sprinkles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_sprinkles/pseuds/Lemon)



> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the below piece of fiction, George RR Martin does
> 
> Warning: Spoilers, Character Death, Sexual Situations 
> 
> Authors Note: I adore Margaery, and I always wanted to write something from her POV. For such an intelligent young woman who is obviously keen on power, I wanted to explore her thoughts as she is wed to Renly-- a union she(and Olenna) had not anticipated. Hopefully you enjoy it!

_She walked through the gardens outside her home._

_Comfort surrounded her, an ease of familiarity creeping through her bones, lulling her into a sense of security. The path was familiar, despite the tendrils of dark blood that crept through the cracks and along the stones. For some reason such anomalies did not worry her, and she continued on her way, fingers brushing along the tops of pink and white roses, feeling the satin under her fingertips._

_The sun was shining, but she could not see it. Looking up, she’d try and find that ball of light but could not, despite the rays that heated her face and tickled her nose. There were clouds present—grey and flat, acting like blankets across the landscape, pocketing parts of the garden in shadows. Traveling further into the garden, she left the roses behind, the stone path with the dark holes turning to a gravel pathway, her feet silent overtop the small rocks. Again, she thought she should find that odd, the little stones rubbing together and crunching underfoot making no sound, as if they weren’t really there. But she thought little of it, her feet leading her towards the hedge maze in the middle of the field._

_As she approached the entrance, the sense of calm left her, a cool breeze pushing through the entrance, caressing her face, pushing long, lazy curls from over her shoulders and down her back. Something was wrong, she felt, and yet it did not worry her—not as it should. Instead she stepped past the first thick hedge and into the maze, the light from the missing sun suddenly no longer touching her shoulders. Instead she was blanketed with a cold, blue light, the smell of earth thick in her senses. It soothed her, despite the itching of her palms and the increase in heart rate. It was subtle, at first, her heart beating at a steady pace, before it began to rise as she began to walk further inside the maze. She tried to keep calm, centering herself best she could as the feeling of unease and wrongness crept up her spine and pricked the back of her eyes._

_But as she turned the corner and the sound of the fountain in the center of the maze trickled through to her, the smell of earth and the soothing notion of life left, and a flood of copper hit her, chocking her, making her grab for her throat and stumble forward, tripping on the gravel that was suddenly terribly loud in her ears, little stones rubbing and grinding together, pounding in her head along with the heavy thud of her heart._

_Panicking, she took off, hands clawing at her skirt to pick it up as she ran, her shoes suddenly abandoned, bare feet pressing against the sharp stones, cutting her soles as she tried to find a way out from the nightmare she’d found herself in. Left, right, another left—she took each twist and turn in the maze without any sense of direction, green leaves blurring together as she moved further and further in, blind panic ripping through her senses before she burst into a clearing._

_The familiar large marble fountain rested in the center, trees curling around the top, creating a canopy that dappled everything as the sun once again shone down. Curling her toes, she felt the grass under her bleeding feet, no pain evident despite the blood and the throbbing. The panic did not leave her, though, and the heavy coppery smell of blood was worse here, as if the fountain was spilling forth blood and not water—cool and crisp and clean. Staring at the fountain, she watched the water trickle down the column in the middle, chest heaving, lips chapped and nails digging into her palm. Still she felt no pain, and she squeezed harder, wishing to be broken from this nightmare._

_“I don’t know what happened.”_

_The voice broke her from her intense gaze and she looked to her left. In the corner sat her brother Loras, and in his arms rested the head of a proud stag. She wanted to call out to him—she wanted to move towards him and have him save her, to hear him speak to her and take her away from this place. But he stayed where he was, head ducked down, fingers grasping the fur of the stag as it lay beside him, beautiful curls tangled and lank as they hung around his features. His eyes refused to meet hers, instead staring down at the handsome creature. Large and proud, the stag rested beside him, long neck stretched out and its head rested on her brother’s lap, golden brown hair shimmering under the dappled light._

_But its eyes were full of fear and panic, the whites around dark brown evident as it stared at her. Suddenly its breathing was no longer relaxed and calm, its ribcage lifting up and down at a manic pace, matching her heart rate, fast and frantic. Nostrils flared, it stared at her as if to ask for help, and she suddenly felt a need to reach up to her own neck, feeling the soft flesh and the bouncing of the vein under the skin—alive and complete._

_“I killed him.”_

_As soon as Loras whispered it he looked up at her, eyes filled with pain and grief, pleading with her to help him just as the stag had done. Warmth washed over her toes, and instead of saying anything to her brother—instead of trying to help—she looked down as tendrils of blood washed over her feet before crawling up her ankles, wrapping around her like rose vines as the blood poured forth from the gash on the stags neck._

Margaery’s eyes flashed open, breathing heavy, sweat making her stick to the sheets beneath her. Bringing a hand up, she rested it across his neck, feeling the skin there—smooth and unmarred, with her heart beat underneath the pads of her fingers, fast and furious, but calming. Staring up at the canopy of her bed, she felt Alla shift next to her, and was about to tell her to go back to sleep when she heard the commotion across the courtyard. She sat up immediately and pushed the blankets off, skin cooling as she hurried to the window and pushed open the shutters, the sound amplified as she pressed her head out.

 She could not see anything, her room removed from the courtyard and the night sky dark and all consuming, but she could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves and the shouting of men, followed by the creak of the large doors of Highgarden being opened and shut.

  _What was going on?_ The sense of doom that had clung to her since she woke left as soon as she jumped down from her perch at the window, that sense of purpose overriding her nightmare. Her Grandmother had told her time and time again that dreams meant little, and only your actions in the real world mattered. Such things as prophecy would not rule her life, and so Margaery believed the same, letting the real world tell her truths, rather than the fabrications of her imagination.

 “What is happening?” Alla asked from her spot on the bed, hair a wild mess as she watched Margaery grab her robe from the back of a chair. Wrapping the green silk and rose embroidered fabric around her small frame, Margaery pulled her hair out from the back of it and twisted it about into a tight curl at the base of her neck.

 “I do not know—but that is why I am going to go check,” she said, smiling slightly as Alla moved to cover herself as well, nightgown concealed by her own robe of blues and pinks. They put on their slippers and left the room. _Alla seems excited_ , Margaery noted as they hurried down the stone steps, feet silent on the stairwell and through the hallways. But she could not muster the same enthusiasm as they neared the great hall, moving in and out of shadow and light. Something was amiss—no one arrived so late for no reason, and no one with so many men.

 Trepidation curled around her in that instance, and she steeled herself for what they would be greeted with as they turned the corner and neared the slightly ajar door. Light flooded the entrance way, and she could hear her father’s voice, crisp and alert, as if he’d been expecting the late-night intrusion. _A queer notion_ , she thought as they slowed and peeked through the crack of the door. Her father stood in front of a large tapestry that displayed a forestry scene—roses and trees intertwined along the edges, while unicorns sat near a lake, the Tyrell standards flapping in the breeze. He was dressed, his hair combed and rings wrapped around his meaty hands. He had been expecting this, she decided, and noticed a note resting in his other hand—no doubt from the raven that had arrived before she had gone to bed.

 Her gaze did not stay long on her father, however, and she moved slightly more into the crack of the door, keeping herself hidden but coming dangerously close to being found out. Before her father stood her brother and Lord Renly, the two of them covered in dirt from the road, cheeks flushed and eyes alight.

 “—I didn’t have time to converse with him for too long, it was a struggle to even gather my men in time to leave,” Renly explained, and Margaery noted that his tenor was not as smooth and as level as she remembered it being, a slight hitch to it all, as if he was unsettled.

 “He wouldn’t listen,” Loras interjected, and Margaery could hear the agitation before she saw it on his young features. “Lord Renly tried to explain it to him but he would have none of it.”

 “Bloody Stark honour,” Mace grumbled, hand stroking his moustache, a sign he was thinking. “You say she has the children?”

 “All three of them—I do believe she will attempt to crown the bastard child tomorrow, even before Robert has been lain to rest.”

 So he was dead. The king was dead, and she—Queen Cersei, Margaery surmised—was going to place Prince Joffrey on the throne, no doubt attempting to seal her power. This was not good, and she chewed at her bottom lip, worrying away at it.

 “We need to act quickly,” her father said after a time, and Margaery held back a protest, not wanting to reveal herself as an eavesdropper. Her attention flicked over to her brother and the Lord in that moment, and she read two very different emotions in their eyes. Excitement was evident in Loras’—bright hazel eyes alert and ready. But Lord Renly’s blue were clouded by fear, a spark of it visible for just a moment. Pulling herself back into the shadows, she turned to look at Alla through the darkness, her eyes wide with curiosity, but lips pulled tight, knowing enough not to ask questions yet. Taking her hand in her own, Margaery lead them away, the buzz of conversation carrying through the stonework of Highgarden as they hurried back up the steps.

 “What has happened? Is the King dead?” Alla asked as soon as it was safe to do so. Her palm was warm and reassuring in Margaery’s own, and she clung to it as they approached her Lady Grandmother’s room.

 “Yes, the King is dead and my father is close to making a grave mistake,” she whispered, turning the corner to see Left and Right standing guard at Olenna’s door—always vigilant and always present. Margaery had thought they were made of magic when she was a younger child. The thought amused her, but only for a moment as she turned to Alla just before the door. “Go back to bed now—I need to speak to Grandmother.”

 “But what about? Please do not leave me out of this, Margaery! You know I cannot stand not knowing,” Alla begged, squeezing Margaery’s hand. Margaery retracted her hand and patted the girl’s cheek, rosy and pink and soft.

 “It’s best that you do not know,” she said, wishing she could say the same for herself. Eventually she convinced Alla to run back to her room, before she turned and entered her Grandmother’s room. The room was warm when she stepped in—far too warm for her liking. The fire was burning away in the corner, iron fireplace glistening black under the flicker of the flames. Lady Olenna claimed she needed the heat to sleep at night, but they both knew that did not help. She did not sleep well; she had never slept well as long as Margaery had known her. Her mind was always working, troubling her old bones and tired conscience, and she refused to take anything for her insomnia, preferring the continual thought over the muffled silence of a dead mind.

 “Who was it?” Olenna asked, her voice alert and eager as Margaery moved into the light of the fire and kneeled before her. Taking one spotted hand in her own, she held on to her gnarled fingers gently. Margaery suspected she knew already, but told her none the less. She explained that her brother and Lord Renly had arrived, that King Robert had died, and Cersei had the children. When she reached the part about her father’s words, her Grandmother tutted, the corners of her mouth pulling tight. “This won’t do…”

 “Do you think he means to—“

 “Of course he does,” Olenna said, and Margaery felt her heart sink into her stomach, mouth going dry as the absurdity of it all took hold. All of their plans—their tricks and ploys—were going to be brushed aside by her father because of such a foolish notion. “Your father has always wanted that glory, Margaery, and it’s been dropped right into his lap—or so he thinks. He’ll marry you off to Lord Renly and declare you Queen.”

 “What do I do?” She knew the question sounded pitiful, her voice wavering as she looked to her Lady Grandmother for guidance. She hated that she sounded like a child.

 “You wait—we both wait. See how the coin will land and bide our time. We work within the constraints we are given, Margaery—remember that.” A lesson she’d taught Margaery from a young age. Work within the constraints—do not struggle against them, rather harness the power for yourself. Do not draw attention, never assume too much, and keep your intentions to yourself. She’d remembered the lesson and stored it away, Olenna reminding her of it every so often when she thought she’d lost it. “In the meantime you need to get back to bed. Sleep for the both of us.”

 Margaery nodded, and looked in her Grandmother’s eyes for strength. She found it, and lifted herself up from the floor and kissed her on the forehead, skin heated from the fire and warm under her lips. As she made move to leave, she paused at the door, back straight and mouth dry. She opened her lips once, a sigh escaping, before she spoke. “I had a dream…” she began, turning around to see Olenna had shifted her head slightly, attention on her despite her gaze on the fire. “I know you told me not to fret about dreams, but… this one…”

 “What was in it, child?”

 “A stag… Loras was holding a stag in his arms and there was blood… Loras said he’d killed the stag.”

 She did not know why she was telling her Grandmother this. It was inconsequential—a dream that meant nothing. But Olenna made a sound, her eyes closing as she shifted slightly in her chair. “Do not fret, Margaery. Sleep and prepare for what tomorrow brings. Dream of roses and pretty maids next time—not of such foolish nightmares that try to disguise themselves as prophecies.”

 Margaery nodded and left the room, cool air brushing against her skin as soon as she was out in the hallway. The door was shut and she thanked Left and Right before walking to her room. The way her Grandmother told her not to worry made Margaery uneasy and try as she might, she could not let that unease go.

XX

 They arrived late in the morning at the table.

 Sitting across from her, Loras reached for an apple from the tray set before them, a smile on his lips as he looked at Margaery from across the way. Her food was almost done, eggshells laid out across a silver plate, the stems of strawberries joining them as she nibbled away at her last one. She smiled back, lips stained from the lone cherry she’d eaten, pink and rosy, covering the pale pallor she’d woken with. Beside him sat Renly, his hand straying out to pick a peach. Loras struck up a conversation with Willas who had been sending Margaery curious looks all morning, obviously wishing to speak but knowing she’d say nothing until she knew their words were not listened to by spiders or birds.

 She watched her brothers converse, eyes skirting to Renly every so often. He too looked pale, bags under his eyes and lips pulled tight as he picked at his peach.

 _Renly loves peaches,_ she remembered Loras telling her once. _He’d eat them all day if he could._

 She had laughed then, and watched Loras as he continued to speak of their Lord, eyes bright with excitement—devotion, even. She’d seen the same look in the faces of her handmaids as they spoke of the boys out in the training yard, infatuation and a hint of lust behind their giggles and pink cheeks. She’s ended the conversation by stating that peaches looked awfully similar to someone’s bottom, to which Loras laughed, nervous and tight, and steered the conversation to the garden and her dress.

 Apparently the peaches were not to Renly’s satisfaction. He took only one bite before it lay on the plate, forgotten as he watched Loras and Willas. He seemed oblivious to most things around him, and she found herself staring at him for some time before he finally noticed her gaze, an easy smile coming forth right away, hiding the weariness on his shoulders and across his brow. She smiled back, and turned her attention to the cat that had pressed against the folds of her skirt. She needed to wait and see how the coin dropped… she needed to be patient.

 “Margaery—will you go for a walk with me later today?” Loras asked, and she couldn’t help but smile. No matter her troubles, spending time with Loras was always a good way to clear her head and speak her mind.

 “Of course I will; I haven’t seen you for months,” she said, and watched as Loras passed Renly a piece of the apple he’d cut. Renly took it without qualms, and their touch lingered for a moment. “Did you bring me a gift?” she teased.

 Loras laughed, although his attention stayed on Renly, watching him eat the slice, worry evident in his eyes. As soon as he was satisfied Lord Renly was eating, he turned his attention fully on her. “I did not have time to shop while I was in King’s Landing, what with a tournament to win, but I did bring you good news of my victory at the tournament for the Hand of the King!”

 She rolled her eyes, pleased with her brother’s victory but annoyed with his slightly braggart behaviour. “You’ll have to make it up to me, then.”

 “He won enough gold that I am sure it will not be an issue,” Renly said. It was the first time he’d spoken all morning. His voice was soft and comforting, but she could hear the twinge of emotion behind each syllable. Was it grief over his brother…? All she had heard about the Baratheon brothers informed her that their relations were continually on uneasy terms, and that the word ‘brothers’ was only applicable to their blood relation. She couldn’t imagine being so estranged from her brothers… No, Renly was worried about something else. The idea of a possible marriage contract between the two once again made its way into her mind, and she couldn’t help but feel more uneasy about it all. Renly wasn’t _ready_ , and they both knew it.

 “How much did you win? Enough to buy me a new mare?” Willas asked, smirked over his goblet as Loras rolled his eyes, a bit of bread in his mouth. He chewed it before speaking, the two brothers beginning their banter once more.

 Sitting back her chair, she soaked in the conversation and bid her time.

XX

 “You’ll be married in four days’ time.”

  Margaery sat before he father, hands clasped in front of her, fingers relaxed despite the overwhelming urge to squeeze them together. She must not show her discomfort or her anxiety. Now was not the place nor the time. She nodded instead, and smiled prettily up at him. He looked pleased with himself, and she tried not to look at her Lady Grandmother or at Lord Renly who sat beside her, his own hands wrapped around the arms of his chair, knuckles white.

  _He isn’t ready_ , she wanted to say, _this is a mummers farce! His love will never come and his affections will never be. He loves another and wishes not for the crown but only for glory. The claim is too weak and his strategy even weaker! How can you not see this?_

But instead of yelling—instead of standing up to her father—she nodded and rose when she was told to, her palms clammy as she turned to her soon to be husband and bowed before leaving with her handmaids. She locked eyes with Loras as she passed, and through the excitement she could see jealousy. It was directed at her, and she tried to not let it get to her. He meant nothing by it—he was just easily read, having not yet learned how to rule his emotions. She too was jealous of Loras, but for different reasons. She wished she could show her real feelings—to let her aggressions out on the battlefield. Loras was trained to show his intentions while she was trained to hide them—keep them bottled up. It was tiring, wearing a front at all times, but she worked within her constraints. A calm, collected outer façade was used to hide the thorns under the beautiful petals.

_Work within your constraints and harness the power._

 She met with her Grandmother after that, Willas joining them as they sat around a table on a balcony, the smell of lemons and roses wafting up to greet them.

 “This was father’s idea, was it not?” Willas asked, stretching his lame leg out, his cane resting against his chair. A continual reminder to them all of the accident.

 “Of course it was my son’s idea,” Lady Olenna retorted, sipping her herbal tea. “He thinks Lord Renly will be easily molded into obtaining us a bit of power. Never mind the fact that his claim is as good as a gelding in a field of mares in heat.”

 “Father doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Willas agreed, ignoring the crass comment from their Grandmother. They were used to it.

 “But we do,” Margaery added, peeling away at an orange she had no intention of eating. After being subject to hiding her anxiety she now felt she had earned the right to let them out through careful fidgeting in the presence of those who knew her agitation. “Can we not manipulate this to our advantage? Let my father crown Lord Renly and marry me to him—this will make me Queen, will it not? Work within our constraints. They can do what they please while we continue to work under the shadows; Renly can be manipulated, if not by us, but by Loras. And I can manipulate Loras.”

 Willas snorted, and Margaery sent him a look. He shrugged, offering no suggestions himself. “She has a point, Grandmother. We can twist this to our advantage if need be.”

 “There will be a need,” Olenna said, sucking in her thin bottom lip before staring out at the garden down below. “There is nothing we can do to stop this, so we best work with what we have. We will let my fool of a son put a crown on the young man’s head, but we must not let too much of that power go to him and my son. Margaery—you need to be firm in your actions with these boys; knock them with a spoon if you have to.”

 Margaery couldn’t help but smile, her Grandmother’s words and spot of humour easing her into a more comfortable situation. She would have to be married eventually; better to a man whom she knew could be used to their advantage, and one who was kind and thoughtful, than to a beast of a man who listened to no one and beat her, using her body….

 Her body…

 “What of the wedding night?” she asked suddenly, and she felt the juice from the orange coat her fingers and slide down her wrist as she squeezed down on it. She knew Renly had no desire for her body and she had none for his, either. But an heir…

 Olenna did not say something for some time, and neither did Willas. Finally, Willas broke the silence. “It would be dangerous to conceive an heir when on the battlefield… You’ll be going with him to King’s Landing no doubt…”

 “It’s a Queen’s duty to see to an heir eventually,” Olenna reminded, her voice unusually soft as she looked at Margaery. Sympathy bled through her water blue eyes, and Margaery did not know if she wanted it or not. “Margaery…”

 “I know,” she said, keeping her voice level. She had to do it—she knew that she had to. The idea frightened her, but she did not let it show as she reached up to brush the juice from her fingertips on a kerchief. “I will do what is needed of me to see that we secure power.”

 “You can put it off for some time. Claim that you are too busy. Wait until King’s Landing is yours,” Willas said, trying to ease the situation. Willas, her dear Willas—always so kind and thoughtful, there to sooth her worries and guide her along when she felt as if things had become too much. She remembered the stories he used to tell her as a small child, and she’d often replay them in her head as she lay in bed, worrying about things she could not control. And here he was, once more holding her hand and guiding her along, despite his inexperience in such womanly matters.

 Intercourse was part of the marriage contract; she knew that, of course. But when it was fast approaching the idea left her shaking despite her better judgement. She was supposed to be strong. “Thank you, Willas… I am sure we will come to some agreement. Perhaps I will speak to my soon to be husband.” She tried to smile. It hurt.

XX

 She walked through the gardens alone the day before her wedding.

 She’d managed to get away from everyone for a short moment, and the sound of her skirt and the click of her heels all she could hear as she hurried down the stone steps of the castle and into the safety of the garden. As soon as she was amongst the flowers and trees she could find herself able to breathe once more. They’d been fitting her for her wedding dress, the bodice snug and painful as it pushed her breasts up and flattened the sides of her waist, giving her curves on her slender frame. The women commented on her waist, saying she had hips that would bear good, strong children. It was then that she began to panic. She tried not to show it, but tears pricked at her eyes and she had to excuse herself when all was done.

 But being in her element, the soft songs of the birds and the trickle of water from one of the smaller fountains, she finally stopped breathing so heavily and the tears that stung her eyes left. Walking down the path and further into the garden, she avoided anyone wandering around, members of her father’s court having come in to bear witness to the union between House Tyrell and House Baratheon. Walking further into the gardens she found herself completely alone, the click of her heels against the stone walkway her only companion.

 _I can do this_ , she told herself as she trailed her fingers along the tops of the roses as she passed. M _any girls married far earlier than myself. This was what I was meant for—to marry and to serve, and obtain power through other means._

Despite her internal thoughts she found it hard to believe what she was saying, and once again she felt like crying. She hated crying—it would do no good to show such a weakness. Besides, she got all red and blotchy, an unbecoming sight, she thought. She stopped at the crossroads, and found herself going down the gravel path towards the hedge maze, still deep in thought and oblivious to the rout she’d chosen subconsciously. Wringing her hands together she stepped into the maze and took all right turns, having learned the secrets of the maze long ago. It was supposed to clear her mind—a way to get lost in the physical world rather than the mental—a cleansing exercise that had always worked before. And it was working now, her thoughts only on the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes as she attempted to stay balanced, her heels no good for walking through such terrain. She knew there would be stone dust all over the bottom of her skirt and green, silk covered shoes, but she cared little for that, and instead focused on the crunch of gravel and the smell of earth.

 Turning the last corner, she came to the center of the maze, sunlight shining down through the canopy of the trees, the fountain spraying water up and then down, coating the marble in water droplets.

 “I don’t know how it happened…”

 She turned then, and locked eyes with a stag.

 Lord Renly’s head was resting on Loras’ lap, his body stretched out on the bench, a large smile spread across his handsome features as he looked up at her brother. Loras was busy carding his fingers through fine black locks, a story on the tip of his tongue as he twirled a strand of raven hair around his finger. Renly noticed her first, and let out a soft gasp before sitting up quickly, swinging his legs around so he was no longer lounging on the bench. Loras’ arms dropped down to his lap, and he blushed a deep red, ashamed at having been found.

 “Margaery, I did not think… I mean…” Loras began, and Margaery quirked the corner of her lip up in a smirk.

“No, you weren’t thinking. The garden is filled with guests this time of day—surely you realized that someone would have happened upon this.” She swallowed and was alarmed to taste copper.

 Loras shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck—another sign he was free to display. Margaery once again envied him that. Renly was busy watching her, his eyes slightly narrowed as he tried to read her expression, looking for a sign. But of what? Anger? Shock? Disgust? She’d known long before they’d even been intimate that Loras loved his Lord; women knew such things. Any shock she had had been used up long ag, and instead she was slightly amused, but mostly worried—worried that her future husband would not be able to keep up the mummers farce. She has her secrets and he had his, but they needed to remain as such.

 “I am sorry, my sweet,” Renly said, and he made move to stand before Margaery made him sit once more with a wave of her hand. She needed to speak with him and now was the best opportunity.

 “Loras, go for a walk through the maze and return in a moment—I need you to escort me back after I’ve conversed with my soon to be husband. I wouldn’t want to come out of here alone with him; questions would be asked.” Loras nodded and did as he was told, leaving the two of them after having given her a kiss on the cheek as he passed.

 As soon as he had left she moved to sit beside Renly, straightening her skirt out, taking her time as she thought of what to say. Did she dare confide in him of her fears? No, best keep them to herself; it would do them no good. Staring out at the fountain, she tried to convince herself that there were no tendrils of blood curling around her ankles. It was just a nightmare she had those days ago—nothing more. “You need to be more careful,” she said after a time, and turned to look at Renly. He was handsome—terribly so. He had a strong profile, his jaw sharp and his nose long, lips full and cheekbones high. When he smiled, both men and women fell under his charm, and he carried himself with dignity and grace. His blue eyes were warm, kindness radiating from them. She tried to imagine what it would be like to stand across from him tomorrow—his new crown on his head, her own around her brow, heavy and solid and real. Would he look at her with any love? Could they have affection when neither of them wanted this?

 The thought that he’d want to stare at her brother as they said their vows made her clench her fists, guilt washing over her. She was taking her brother’s love—she knew it, Loras knew it, and no matter how he tried to hide it, she knew that he was jealous and upset. Their time together would now be shadowed by her presence. She never wanted to hurt her brother and he meant no ill will, but his emotions were wild; a force to be reckoned with. He’d accept it and he’d still love her, but the bitterness was palpable. He should have been the one to marry Renly; he should have been the Tyrell used to bind the ties between the houses.

 But he wasn’t, and she was. And she loathed it. And she accepted it.

 “I know,” Renly said, turning to look at her, a sheepish smile on his lips. She couldn’t help but return it. Perhaps Renly could be her friend… “We’re terribly foolish boys, you see—never thinking ahead. It’s why I’m lucky to have you, my sweet.”

 His _sweet_ … she wanted to make a quip of how she was no peach, but she decided against it, realizing such uncouth remarks, no matter how amusing she meant them to be, could be misconstrued. Her Lady Grandmother always told her to be careful of her quick wit and sometimes inappropriate humour. Pot calling the kettle black, she thought, but she never said anything.

 “Have you seen your crown?” she asked.

 Renly quirked a brow, obviously expecting more questioning from her. She simply smiled, and let him think she knew less than she did. “I have… it’s… how shall I put it… heavy?”

 He was nervous. Unready. Unprepared. She’d been raised for this, and had expected to marry someone else who was. Now she realized she’d have to guide him along the way—teach him what she knew as her Grandmother had taught her for her entire life. Would he ever be ready?

  “Mine is… delicate,” she decided, and found her hand clasped gently in Renly’s own. She squeezed back, trying to find the appeal in a strong hand in her own rather than a soft and gentle one. “I like it.”

 “I thought you might,” Renly teased.

 Yes, Renly could be her friend, she decided.

XX

 The wedding was beautiful—all could agree. Margaery played the blushing bride, smiling meekly and giving her new husband loving looks as he thought of another with honey brown curls and hazel eyes. When they danced at the feast, he carried her around the floor as if she weighed nothing, the two graceful and talented, her large skirt and his cape twirling about their forms. The smell of rich foods and heavy perfumes permeated the air, and she allowed the revelry of the evening and the joy of the union to wash over her. It was a nice event—a good party for all to have before the war began and death and destruction was the main course.  Her husband was kind and gentle, and they played up their supposed affection for all those around, pleasing them while silently praying to the seven for a successful union and that they hadn’t just signed their death warrants.

 Her crown fit snuggly and she tried not to reach up to touch it, to feel the gold and jewels underneath her fingertips. She was now a Queen, although she did not feel the same amount of joy she thought she would. When they were in the throne room of King’s Landing perhaps it would be more real. As of now it felt still like an abstract thought, just one with the face and name of a Baratheon.

 Sitting down at the raised table, she sipped her wine as Renly danced with Elinor, watching the two of them and nodding every so often as her mother spoke to her about the beauty of the wedding and the feast that they had prepared. Off to the side Loras stood—proud and tall as he conversed with a few fellow knights, all of them already slightly drunk. She would have chided Loras for consuming so much alcohol, but thought it best to let him go just this once. It was needed, she believed. He had stood strong during the nuptials and there was no reason he did not deserve a cushion from reality just for one night.

 The music slowed down, and partners changed hands, Margaery watching as Renly moved off to the side, attempting to reach Loras. She pursed her lips over the rim of her cup when he was pulled off by her father, leading him towards more men to speak with. She was trying not to think of the rest of the night and what that would entail, and instead busied herself by dancing with those who asked, letting their droll conversation take her away. She soon found herself in her brother Garlan’s arms, his keen observations about the people around them making her laugh and smile as they twirled about, the realities of the situation no longer present as she relaxed in front of her friend and her sibling.

 “Does she realize that makes her look rather large from behind?” Garlan asked as they danced past a woman who _did_ look rather large from behind. She giggled, and gently batted his arm.

 “Play nice,” she chided as he rolled his eyes and set his sights on another person. It was a cruel game, but one they had all played as children. Tyrells had an arrogance to them, she’d heard the gossip often enough. While she attempted to stay polite and kind to all those around her, she had grown up believing she was better due to her status as a Tyrell. She was privileged, receiving everything she’d ever wanted in life. But it came at a cost—that being a woman doomed to be married off to the best available suitor. Once more the crown felt heavy on her shoulders, and she lost her smile as soon as the dance had stopped and Garlan went back to his wife. Sitting on the dais, she played with the handle of her goblet, Grandmother sitting nearby, complaining about the music. She didn’t have to complain for much longer before the music stopped and some yelling occurred down the way.

 “The bedding! To the bedding!”

 Her stomach dropped and the cherry in her mouth turned to ash. Swallowing it, she stood as someone gently grabbed her arm, pulling her upwards. Turning, she found herself staring into Loras’ eyes. Soft and gentle, he guided her from the stage and down the steps, helping her with her skirt as he did so. All eyes were on her, and some of the men made to follow. She didn’t want this—she didn’t want the men to see her form and gaze upon her body as she was stripped in a barbaric fashion. She was scared, but did not know how to voice her fear. Other girls had done this, surely she could as well? Her hand began to tremble, and she looked up at Loras for guidance, his hand warm and solid wrapped around her own.

 “Help me?” she whispered, soft and delicate. She did not think it would carry through the commotion, and she looked off to the side to see the ladies leading Renly off towards the bedchamber, singing and dancing as he was stripped along the way. He seemed happy enough, and she envied that he could keep appearances up when she was falling apart at that very moment. Her Grandmother had told her to be strong and to stay strong—never show your weaknesses. Work within your constraints. Harness them and make them your own.

 But this was too much. She felt like fainting as they left the great hall, Loras the only one keeping her up as faces past and the music and cheering turned into a cacophony of abusive sounds. She looked up at Loras one last time, and that was when their eyes locked. His lips tightened in that instance as he grabbed her and gently scooped her up into his arms. Turning around, he faced the crowed of people who were prepared to follow. “Why I do enjoy a bit of tradition, my sweet sister is far too beautiful for the likes of you brutes,” he began, all in good humour as the men laughed, a few making rude sounds but meaning nothing behind it. “So you best all return to the party and wait for the maids to leave our Grace alone and return, as I carry your new Queen up to him.”

The men seemed slightly disappointed, but Loras’ hard stare behind the smile was enough to dissuade them, and he turned around, arms holding her up, sure and sound with no tremble behind them. She kept her arms wrapped around his neck and as soon as they were alone she stuffed her face against the crook. He smelt of wine and perfume, sickeningly sweet but comforting. “Thank you,” she said, not knowing what else to say as her brother saved her from the embarrassment of the bedding.

 “There is no need for such thanks,” Loras replied as he kicked open the door to the bedroom. She was placed down on her feet then, and she found her strength once more as they gazed upon the wedding bed. The room next door could be heard through the wooden door, the ladies stripping Renly down, giggling and talking. She could only imagine the scene, and wondered if Renly enjoyed the gazes or not…

 “You need to be bare for this,” Loras explained, and she finally looked up at him. He was staring at the bed, fists clenched as he looked at one of the tassels on a gold and green pillow. She nodded, not knowing what to say or do, and stripped down after he undid the laces on her wedding gown.  He had turned away, attention now fixed on the oak desk in the corner. She watched him, trying to push away her fears and trepidation as the clothing fell away and landed on the floor in a pile. Collecting the beautiful gown, she touched the rose pattern on the bottom and the intricate beading. It really was a beautiful dress—any girl should have been happy to have wed in it.

 There was a knock on the door and Margaery hurried into the bed and covered herself up before Loras opened it. The girls pushed past first, dragging Renly behind them. Loras narrowly avoided being run over by them all, and stood off to the side as their _king_ stepped into the room, completely naked. His face was flush, whether from embarrassment or wine, she could not be sure, and she smiled, putting on a mask as she held the blankets up over her form. The girls gave her a look, all of them smiling brightly, mischief in their eyes as they practically pushed Renly on to the bed. He fell, all long, strong limbs and muscle, right beside her, and her eyes wandered down the planes of a body she found appealing only in artwork.

 She giggled and tried to look excited as the girls streamed out, a few lingering looks here and there. Loras left soon after, and Margaery wanted to call out to him—to tell him to stay or to help her once more, she did not know—but her voice caught in her throat, and she was left in the room with Renly. It was silent, and she sat, fingers keeping the blanket up to her neck as he lay beside her, completely nude. His cock was only half hard, and his gaze was on the closed door Loras had just left through.

 She thought of him being inside her. How it would feel. It would hurt—she knew that. She’d heard of women bleeding, and while many tried to downplay the initial pain of penetration, she knew it would be painful. She couldn’t fathom wanting someone inside you whom you did not love. To share that intimacy with someone, to have them fill you… She swallowed a thick wad of spit, hands trembling despite the urgency in her mind telling her to keep herself together. She’d known this day would come for years, and yet now that it had she wanted to run away from it all. This wasn’t fair for her or for Renly.

 But life was not fair—she knew that. Life was unfair the day her brother was made cripple. Life was unfair the day she realized she was a girl and not a boy, and therefore had limited power. Life was unfair.

 “Life is unfair…” Renly’s voice was distant, and she snapped her head up from where she’d been staring at his cock. She blushed, realizing she’d been looking, and brushed a lock of hair back from her face, curls falling out of the intricate bun it had been placed in.

 “You’ve read my mind,” she said softly. He made no move to touch her, and she made none to touch him. Instead they stayed on the bed for some time, until Renly had gone completely soft. He finally turned to her then, and smiled—it was sad, and she could not tell if it was for her or for himself.

 “I could be too drunk,” he said after a time.

 She had no idea what he meant, and raised a brow, still curled in on herself under the blankets. “I do not know what you mean, my Grace.”

 “Renly… don’t call me that, my sweet,” he said, sitting up slightly, hair sticking up in the back. She reached up then, and touched the strands, flattening them. His hair was silky and soft, and she found herself carding her fingers through it, even when the tangles were gone. “I could be too drunk to perform.”

 That made sense. Relief flooded through her, and she dropped her hand and moved in to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, Renly.”

 He smiled, then—a real one, no more sadness behind it. It was all for her. “You should dress and then sleep. We leave tomorrow.”

 They did. Off to war as soon as she had been wed. Another thing she never imagined she’d have to go through. Margaery nodded and slipped off of the bed as he turned around and stared at the wall, giving Margaery her modesty. Putting on her nightgown, she went to sit at the desk, and began unpinning the flowers and beads that had been placed in her hair. She saw Renly dress through the reflection mirror, and was only mildly surprised when he came up behind her and helped her with the task of her hair. His fingers were deft and sure, and she dropped her hands and placed them on her lap as he worked the decorations out. Once her hair was down and across her shoulders, he grabbed a ponyhair brush and began combing her hair out. Nothing was said during that time, and she watched him through the reflection in the small hand mirror. His eyes were downcast, the shadows of the room making his handsome features stand out more, and his lips were slightly pursed as he paid attention to the task at hand. She could see why Loras loved him—why he’d fallen for him in the first place. He was kind and gentle, well-meaning if not a little arrogant. And he was vulnerable...

 They ended up falling asleep in the same bed, Renly’s back to her as he curled around a stray pillow. She wondered what it would have been like to have slept in his arms—to feel the warmth of a man close to her. But she did not ask for his embrace, finding it almost more intimate than the thought of having sex with him. A strange idea, but she kept it to herself and burrowed under the blankets, hair silky smooth from the gentle brushing.

 Her last thought before she fell asleep was: _I bet my brother hates that he snores…_

XX

_She’s in love with him…_

She watched Lady Brienne stand in the corner over the rim of her cup as she drank the sweet water with lemon rounds floating at the top. The day was warm and the water was soothing as she drank it slowly. The newest member of the Rainbow Guard—Brienne of Tarth—was completely enamoured with her husband. She’d stare at him, large blue eyes filled with admiration and affection. Margaery could not help but think she looked almost pretty when she was around Renly—as if his presence brought a new light to her otherwise homely face. She wished she could tell the woman that her husband was a lost cause, but instead she picked up an apricot and ate it as Renly, Lord Fossoway and Lord Tarly discussed war tactics. Renly looked slightly lost, but he was soaking in the information much like a sea sponge, willing and eager to learn.

 The past few weeks had been hard on them all, and Margaery found herself wanting to lie down and sleep most of the time, the politics and battle conversations wearing her thin. She took in all that she could and spent most of her time writing to her Grandmother of important things, covering up any information with secret words and codes she’d learned at a young age. She did not want to give anything away, and should someone read her letters they’d assume she was having some lady issues or was truly, madly, and deeply in love with her new husband. Perhaps she’d even be with child, soon!

 The notion made her smile to herself as she watched the men leave, Renly the only one left in the room, save for Lady Brienne standing guard in the corner. Lord Caswell had been kind enough to share his castle with Renly and therefore they had a bit of luxury, although Margaery found it hard to complain of the status of her loggings when she was in her tent. She was not used to traveling, especially with such a large number of men and women, but she took it in stride, trying to think of it as an adventure and not a potentially calamitous event. But despite her misgivings, her Lady Grandmother had sent her encouraging words that she was keeping her father, Mace Tyrell, in check. He had kept much of the force at Highgarden, therefore keeping much of the power there as well. As long as they had some of the power still in their clutches, any disastrous event could not be quickly made up. Or so she told herself as she watched her husband and friend lose himself in the glory recounted in old songs….

 “You should have something to eat,” Margaery suggested as Renly sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. While the stress had been getting to him slowly, Renly tried not to show too much of it, hiding behind his smiles and courtesies. But she saw it all—the wear on his shoulders, the slight bags under his eyes, and the exhaustion in his frame. She’d asked Loras one night to comfort him, and spent her evening out of the king’s tent and in her own. In the morning Renly looked more refreshed, but it only lasted so long…

 The arrival of Catelyn Stark did little to ease his nerves, and she too had become anxious at the unannounced arrival. She wanted to be part of the discussion—she wanted to talk to Lady Stark herself, hoping they could come to terms, but the men were having none of that. They had deluded Renly into believing that he could claim the throne in its entirety, with no sacrifices having to be made. And why shouldn’t he believe it? He had amassed the largest army and had almost all of Westeros’ support—compromises were for those who had everything to lose.

 But she knew how arrogance made for a higher fall, and she worried for both Renly and for her family. One misstep and it could all come crumbling down upon them. She had tried to reason with Renly after he refused to come to an agreement with Lady Stark, but he wasn’t really listening. He’d begun to believe the propaganda himself, and she worried away at that knowledge, wanting to tell him he was being a fool but unable to. She was his wife, not his battle strategist and not a fellow warrior.

  _Work within the constraints and harness the power…_

 She kept repeating it in her head, and yet found it harder and harder to accept.

 “I ate this morning,” he said, and she broke her gaze from the empty plate before him, her musings snatched away from her once his low, baritone voice carried through.

 She gave him a level stare, and he tried not to fidget under it. She kept her gaze locked on him before he reached out and plucked a pear from the bowl in front of him, shaking it around before taking a bite.

 “You’re not eating a peach?” she asked, a smirk appearing on her lips. Renly raised a brow, and his eyes skirted over to Brienne in the corner before he bit into the pear and sent her a smile, cheeks stuffed with the fruit.

 Swallowing, he let out a satisfied sound. “You’re right—I did need to eat something.”

 Of course she was right—she was always right. “You need to listen to me more often,” she began, hinting subtly that this wasn’t the only instance she was correct. “A lady always knows best—especially when she is your wife.”

 He sent her another amused smile as he finished off the pear and tossed the core on the silver plate, brushing his hands on the kerchief beside it. “I should listen to Tyrells—you’re all a very shrewd bunch.”

“Speaking of shrewd… are you speaking to Lady Stark again, tonight?” she asked, sitting back in her chair.

 “Yes—I plan to reason with her. Show her the true size of my army in hopes that she’ll see that her son has no hope in winning against us. Best side with us right away, or face the consequences…” He said it, but it sounded more as if he was reading from a script—like an actor from a troop of performers. She tried to believe his words, but could not. Side with Lady Stark—come at the Lannisters from both sides and smash them together. Treaties could be signed after the real threat was taken care of and the throne secured.

 “And what of your brother? Any word from him yet?”

 Renly pursed his lips and rested his chin on his hand. He stared at the stone wall ahead of him, right above her left shoulder, deep in thought. “No…” he mumbled, distant. She watched him, let him collect his thoughts, before speaking again.

 “My brother wished to speak to you this morning.” _He came by when you were supposedly breaking fast._

 _“_ He did?” That perked him up, and he rose from his seat. “Please excuse me, my sweet, but I should go see what he wants.” She nodded, smirking as he hurried off, a bounce once again in his step. It seemed a pear and a meeting with his rose was all he needed. She couldn’t help but giggle, and caught Brienne’s eye as she gave her a curious look from her place in the corner, Ser Crane and Ser Cuy following behind her husband as he stepped out of the room and hurried to find Loras.

 She simply shrugged at Brienne. “How did you learn to fight?” she asked the knight instead, curious. The woman seemed confused for a moment, and looked about to see if she was speaking to someone else. “I’m speaking to you, Lady.”

 “I am no Lady, your Grace…” Brienne mumbled, her voice rough and her head bowed. Margaery wondered what had made her so meek and unassuming when not on the battlefield, and realized it must have been her appearance. Men could be cruel, and women even more-so.

 “What would you have me call you then?”

 “I… I am a knight, your Grace.”

 And a good one at that. She’d seen her defeat her brother out on the field, and it left Loras with a rather large goose egg on his forehead. She’d never seen her brother fall before, and found it quiet extraordinary that a woman had caused it.  “May I call you Brienne, then?”

 “I… If my Grace wishes.” She shuffled slightly, and glanced up to look at Margaery only to quickly look away. Margaery had a hard time reading her expression, but realized she must have been jealous. Once again, she had another jealous knight on her hands. She wanted to tell her that she had no reason to be jealous of her but instead she stood and went to a desk pushed against a wall, sliding her finger along the rich, dark oak.

 “Tell me—how did you become a knight, Brienne?” She paused half way along the desk, and swished her skirt up slightly, before sitting on the edge, hands resting on her lap, one foot dangling further down than the other. She was curious about Brienne—and a little envious. She had wanted to learn to fight when she was younger, and she had believed that she and Loras would both receive blades when they came of age. But when he turned of age a year before her and was pulled away from the garden and their play room to join the others in the training yard, she was plucked up by her Grandmother and taken to another section of the castle, where she was taught how to fight with her words and her grace.

 Brienne’s armour was a physical thing—sturdy metals and hardy leather. Her armour was her mind— quick and careful, observant and always on guard. They had learned to fight in different ways—she and Loras and now she and Brienne. But that did not mean she was not a little envious of the way Brienne commanded a blade and herself. She may be homely, but she was graceful and powerful on the tourney field. Margaery could appreciate that, and was glad that her husband did as well.

 “I trained, your Grace. I was never any good at dancing or stitching, and I was… larger than most girls,” she explained, her speech awkward and stilted, but true and honest. “I wanted to be good at something, I suppose. Hefting a sword came naturally to me, like it does for most girls and dancing.”

 “Fighting with a sword is an awful lot like dancing,” Margaery said, smiling at Brienne when she looked up at her. “My brother Loras always says he feels as if he’s doing a dance with his partner, only it’s more… fast paced and vicious. Still, a dance is a dance, and you dance beautifully.”

 Margaery decided that Brienne looked pretty when she smiled an honest smile.

XX

 She had been for a walk through the camp when news reached her of Stannis’ assault on Storm’s End. She picked up her skirt and hurried back to the castle, her ladies in waiting trailing after her, attempting to keep up. Walking briskly up the steps to the meeting room in the castle, she was stopped by one of Renly’s guards, and she raised a brow high.

 “Why have you stopped me?” she asked, impatience leaking through his voice.

 “I’ve been instructed to not let anyone in, my Grace” he began, looking a bit foolish, stopping a Queen of all people. But he stood firm, and she had to give him that. “King Renly has received some alarming news, and he is planning his next step with his Lords.”

 “And his lady wife, so I suggest you step aside and let me _in_ ,” Margaery said, staring the man down. He may have the spear and the armour, but she had the motivation and the stubbornness to win this battle. He stalled only a moment, before stepping out of the way and opening the door, bowing as she walked past and into the meeting room.

 It was warm, the press of bodies too much in the cramped space. It seemed Lords from all over the camp had decided to join the meeting, irritating her. These men who knew only of basic politics, and preferred to speak about marriages, but she—a woman who knew more than half of these men about policymaking—was prevented from entering? She hoped that Renly had not been the one to send out the order to block the room, else…

  “—he must be stopped before it becomes an issue.”

“You’re speaking as if he’s going to fight his brother.”

 “Well if it comes to that I am sure—“

“—it’s not as if you can just begin a siege—“

“—I can’t even hear myself think very well—“

She peered over the shoulders of the men, having not yet been seen as she tried to gauge the situation. At the head sat her husband at the table, his head bowed, staring at a map, coal black hair hiding his face, ringed fingers resting on the edge of the table, knuckles white. Beside him stood her brother, eyes narrowed as he watched the men bicker, gaze flicking down every so often to stare at his king, hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, belying the speed and force at which he could rip it out of its scabbard should someone come too close to his Grace and love.

 Lord Tarly sat close by, arguing with one of the lords, while others yelled at each other, all deciding that they were correct; a pitiful attempt at making themselves seem important. She was embarrassed for them all, and pushed past one of them to get further in the room. As soon as one noticed her they all seemed to, and more moved out of her way, bowing as she passed and made it to the center of the room.

 “Margaery…?” Loras mumbled, confusion on his features as Renly raised his head, an eyebrow quirked. She curtsied, as she was trained to do, before turning to face the room. They were all staring at her, and she felt her hands began to sweat slightly, clammy and uncomfortable as she squeezed her fists shut before relaxing her fingers. She must not give anything away...

 “I am sure you all have important and invaluable information to bestow upon your king, all in the best of intentions, of course,” she began, keeping her voice trained and leveled as she grabbed hold of her constraints and ripped them from the wall, “but it is clear that at the moment that this shouting and this arguing is aiding no one. Now, I would respectfully ask you all to _leave_ for the time being, and let me converse with my husband.”

 The mood went from tense to worse--a subtle shift in the air that felt as if those shackles she had ripped from the grasp of men were once again in their hands, closing down on her as she faced the crowd. _It’s merely the tight bodice around my frame that is making it difficult to breath_ , she told herself, _not the men and their condescending looks._ They looked at her as a child, and then as a woman. The respect was there only for her Tyrell name and her marriage alliance, not from any true esteem.

 But she stood strong and stayed strong, staring the men down as the spell was slowly lifted by the voice of her Grace.

 “Do as she asks,” Renly said, his voice strong as he stood. She turned, and saw him smiling at the men. Not at her. “She requests that you only leave for a short moment—there is no harm in calming oneself. We will continue this meeting of minds shortly, my good men.”

 That finally broke them from their trance and they agreed, although grudgingly, and slowly filed out of the room at the request of a fellow man—not at Margaery’s. She watched them leave and did not turn back around until the room was empty, save for Renly and Loras. “Your brother will not back down.”

 “He may be foolish about basic things in life, such as simple courtesies, but he is militarily not a fool. He will see that he cannot possibly win against my larger army,” Renly said, sitting back down, weariness in his features. And fear. Like the night he arrived at Highgarden. She glanced up at Loras and read excitement in his. The sight made her gut clench.

 “We’ve agreed to meet with Lord Stannis at Storm’s End,” Loras added, still standing guard over Renly. Always present, even when he was not physically there with Renly. “Our Grace plans to speak to him—have him see it is folly to oppose him.”

 “And if he doesn’t see?” Margaery asked, jaw clenching. She was asking Renly, not seeing the excitement in his eyes that Loras had. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, she’d seen the fear and had latched on to it, pulling at it, trying to get him to see that going into this with such confidence could be his downfall. She had decided that she would help Renly—guide him and teach him the ways of diplomacy as she had been taught by her Lady Grandmother. She would not lose him to his arrogance. She could not lose him. Striding forward, she rested her hands on the table, palms pressed against the map of The Reach. “Do not go into this believing he will back down, Renly. You know that this is not his intention—he is prideful, uncompromising, and unwilling to see you get something he feels he deserves. You told me all this not two weeks ago.”

 Renly sat before her, silent as she tried to get him to see reason. “He has to see…” Renly said, voice soft as she locked eyes with him. The fear was there once more, swimming behind the notions of glory and grandeur. But it was there—that scared, terrified young man she’d held hands with in the garden was still there, not completely swallowed up the moment the crown was placed on his head. He was arrogant and foolhardy, but he was not beyond reason and compassion. Their eyes stayed locked, and for a moment she thought she was looking into the eyes of that scared stag in her dreams, asking for help but silent in voicing it.

 “If he doesn’t, we crush him.”

 Loras’ voice broke the tentative link, and suddenly Renly’s eyes were once again alight with excitement. All Margaery could do was stare up at her brother, mouth open. _No…_

 “Renly has the larger army and more support—Lord Stannis would be a fool to attempt anything. And if he does we will defeat him. Simple.”

 “Loras is right, Margaery,” Renly said, standing and placing his hand on Loras’ shoulder for a brief moment before he walked around the table to stand before her. He smiled, and brushed a stray curl from her cheek to wrap it around her ear. “Do not fret—I will try my hardest to prevent a war with my own blood. But I must go meet him. I will bring only the fastest and leave the brunt of my men with you under your control.”

 She should have been happy to hear that. She should have been grateful to have such power under her control. But it felt her feeling ill and empty, and a dull throb blossomed from behind her left eye, making her nauseas. She had come so close… “As your Grace commands,” she said, bowing slightly, Renly’s hand dropping from her cheek. She swallowed, and once again tasted copper.

 “I’ll walk you to your room,” Loras said, and she nodded, following him out, his hand warm against her arm. She spared Renly one last look over her shoulder, and no longer saw the frightened friend she’d made in the garden.

 “You have doomed him,” Margaery told Loras as they stopped in front of her door. There were giggles from behind the sturdy oak and she knew her ladies in waiting were inside, oblivious to the fright that had taken hold of her.

 He raised a brow, and smiled slightly, head quirked to the side. “How do you mean?”

 “His arrogance and confidence is nothing to be nurtured—not now. No victory is assured before a battle, and yet you and everyone else has deluded him into believing he’s already a king,” she explained, the pain behind her eye intensifying as she wrestled with her emotions. Her brother—her own brother—had been the one to undo the bonds. She had come so close, and he had slid his blade across the link with his own pride. She could not believe that Loras would do that, and yet he had.

 He frowned, then, cheeks going red with embarrassment and hurt. “Margaery—your words are damning. You worry far too much; he has the best men around him to protect him, including myself. No harm will come to him. You speak as if there will be a war and he will die—as if you’ve had visions like an old crone down in a village, selling common sense in the form of a prophecy. Saying and believing such things do you no good, and you must not worry yourself like this. Renly is _safe_.”

  He said it with such conviction that she almost let herself be swayed over, wanting his words to comfort her and drag her into a sense of false safety and security. But the entire situation stank of blood and doom, and she resisted the urge to press her hand against her eye, feeling as if it would push itself out soon enough. “Do not let your guard down,” was all she could say, staring up at him. Brilliant hazel locked with the same rich hue, and they stood together outside the door, almost a mirror image.

 “You speak as if I’ve killed him…” he whispered, realization dawning upon him, and she could see the anger in his gaze, his jaw clenching as he tried to hide his real emotions. His emotional armour was as flimsy as her silk dress against a sword.

 “I did not say that.”

 “And yet you mean it. You said my words and my confidence in him have doomed him. Let me assure you, Margaery—I will let no harm come to those I love.” She had no chance to defend herself before he left her at the door, his rainbow striped cloak billowing behind him as he strode down the corridor, a physical representation of his duty to protect Renly. A duty she had questioned and defiled.

 She stared at the spot that he had left, her vision fuzzy in one eye, willing the image of the fallen stag and her blood soaked feet to leave her. Clasping her rose necklace, the delicate gold petals dug into her palm as she squeezed down on it, and began to cry.

XX

 She found herself lying in her bed, the noise from the camp down below loud as men prepared in the early morning before the sun had even risen. Stannis had not backed down, and a crow arrived late in the evening telling of an impending battle between King Renly’s and Lord Stannis’ forces.  Stannis refused to support Renly, and Margaery had to quell the feeling of unease as it sat in her stomach, the argument she had with Renly and Loras replaying in her mind. She knew this would happen—Lord Stannis was a strong man in his convictions, and would not back down from what he thought was his by right. He may have stated that he was doing it all out of duty, but she knew it was more than that. It was always more than that.

 Men had pride and men had egos. To try and take it from them was an affront to their masculinity. She had to laugh that, although it was bitter and without mirth.

 She spent the day after Renly had left walking through the camp with her handmaids following behind, trying to stop the restlessness from getting to her. Her mind needed to be clean and bare, ready for anything. But when news returned that they would be going to battle, and worse still, her brother would be leading the Vanguard, she found herself pacing around in her room, bottom lip sucked in as she fretted.

 Loras was going into battle, her husband as well, and any hope of reconciliation with both the Starks and Lord Stannis was all but gone. She had hoped that there could be peace made between them all, and that after the dust had settled internal bickering could begin, but the men all around him had foolishly tapped into Renly’s pride before she could manage to get a hold of him herself, and fed him with ideas of glory and victory. She wanted to scream, then. She wanted to tell them all how they were blind fools and how they’d written their own fate in blood.

 There was something in the air, and yet no one but she could feel it. It hung heavy and oppressive, along with the excitement for battle, sticking to her, making her feel ill and frustrated. She felt useless, her hands pulled behind her back as she tried to break free and do something—anything. She needed to harness the constraints, and yet it was slipping from her grasp, and she was unable to capture it and keep hold.

 It tore away at her all day, and she found no respite even in her sleep. The apprehension increased as soon as she was in her bed, Alysanne beside her, awake as well. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the stag from her dreams, and the feeling of blood seeping between her toes was real enough that she had to reach down and feel for the liquid, always bringing her hand back up to find it bare and clean.

 Instead she gave up on sleep and dressed herself in traveling clothes; prepared to control the army she’d been left. If the battle was a success, they would remain at Bitterbridge and await their Grace’s victorious return. Should things go badly Margaery was fully prepared to bring the remaining men back to Highgarden, and keep the army for… for what, she wasn’t sure.

 Alysanne braided her hair and helped her tie it up in a bun, keeping it out of the way as she slipped on supple deer-skin gloves and a cloak over her shoulders. The feeling of unease grew and grew, and she found it easier to keep moving. Restlessly, she moved around her room, packing things she thought she’d need, unpacking them and putting them back in their place when she realized she did not. The image of the fallen stag continued to haunt her, and she paced, hating herself for believing in things she was _told_ not to be true by her Grandmother and her brother.

 But when a messenger arrived in her room, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, she was not surprised by what she heard as the sun peeked out over the overcast clouds, bringing morning light and revelations. She stared at her feet as he spoke, and watched the imaginary bloody tendrils curl up her feet and around her ankles, an ill omen being spoken allowed, her prophecy no longer __just__ a nightmare.

 “The king is dead.”

 


End file.
